rose red

it was my first thought, this morning. aside from the alarm clock, which is less a thought than a reaction, there was a song. it happens every now and then; i will wake up with a song resounding in my head that i haven't heard in a while. such was the case this time. a beautiful, powerfully driving song, about love and hate, lust and sin, and the mutual torture which binds us together.

try as he might, he's unable to speak
he grabs her by the hair, he strokes her on the cheek
the bed is un-made, like everything is
dark little heaven at the top of the stairs

it stuck with me this morning, forced my every step, measured my every breath, strikingly beautiful and foreboding. in the shower, i drew the sharp corner of the broken soap container lightly across my chest, just so it would leave a little red mark there for a while. walking to french, in the cold, i kept a sharp eye. it's something i do these days, to prevent running into those i don't want to. it hit me in class this morning, the idea, driven by the bass and raw truth. as much as i tried to forget, i didn't really want to. my stomach went sick but it was a foregone conclusion. and, to my dismay, i watched it all play out in my mind.

take me like that, ruin it all
then build it again, by the light in the hall
he drops to his knees, says please my love please
i'll kill who you hate, take off that dress you won't freeze

i got out quickly and walked back to my room. aside from being chilly, it really was a beautiful day. i knew my roommate wouldnt be there, or hoped so, and the door was locked. as i walked into the dim room, i dropped my bag on the floor and pulled up my right sleeve. it never even occured to me any other way; i am left handed, after all. the skin looked so innocent there, on the white underbelly of my forearm. down there where the sun doesn't shine so much, isn't marred by freckles or moles, just pure, white skin. so i reached into the drawer under my desk and found a knife. one special to me, really. i found it in the woods, one day, on a scout trip, years ago. a wooden gerber, with an old leather case. pretty dull, but a knife. my stomach hurt. i put the song on.

he starts with her back, cause thats what he sees
when shes breaking his heart, she still fucks like a tease
release to the sky, look him straight in the eye
and tell him right now, that you wish he would die

i took the knife, locked it open, and checked the blade. moved to a clear spot on the floor and sat down. the room didn't feel as dark as before, just right. my stomach hurt very bad. i looked at my forearm, decided not to touch the middle. it seemed like there was more to go wrong in the middle. i pressed the blade down to the skin on the inside and slid it up and down a little. not to break the skin, just to feel it. just for the little red marks. i had forgotten how cold the steel was, how frightening it became. holding the edge an inch or so above the skin, my hand shook violently, but as soon as it touched down, was calm. i had all intentions of slowly dragging it from my wrist to my elbow but it is never that easy. i dug the point in, hard, and started the march toward myself. it hurt, but not that bad. i took it maybe four inches and realized the skin hadn't even broken. really should sharpen the damn thing sometime. i started again, in this little deep gray valley in the skin, with the middle of the blade; sliced down the same area, hard. tried it again, and again. i pried the skin apart a little and tiny rivulets of blood started forming in the crease. i can't even begin to describe the beautiful color it was. there was no use in going further, this is all i really wanted anyway.

you'll never touch him again, so get what you can
leaving him empty, just because he's a man
so good when it ends, they'll never be friends
one more night, thats all they can spend

this isn't about being suicidal. i have only ever joked about that. this is about feeling alive for a moment. about feeling a physical kind of pain to match all the others. the problem is, i wasn't any happier afterwards than i was before. and though i can look down at it now and feel like i have something there... that's really not the point. in a way, it felt good to release a little bit of myself; as if the body were just a cage for the soul, instead of a vessel. and there were plenty of times during the day - lunch in the mag room, frisbee on the quad, people recognizing me on the way to class, frisbee golf at night - that remind me why it is better to go 'down the road' instead of 'across the street'. and it is hard to publish this, frightening even. i am not writing this for shock value, simply because it is real... real to me. and nobody worry; i guess the fundamental difference is, i end up with a dull forest knife when i really could have used a razorblade.

one more night {that was a good one}